


An Offer in the Darkness

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin: The Animated Series, Disney - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: A fill for a prompt on the disneykinkmeme asking for dark Razoul/Aladdin. Heed the warnings.





	An Offer in the Darkness

An offer in the darkness.

Drained from his crazed struggle in his chains, weary from his own screams, soiled by his own tears, and tired of looking out into the blackness and knowing that the vague-outline was Abu's broken and dead body (so easily crushed by the fists and feet by palace guards come a little too early into the dungeon), Aladdin let his head fall onto his chest, uncaring about his numb and slowly bleeding arms chained above him as he sank comfortably into despair, anger exhausted.

His chin was grabbed roughly, his face slapped to get his attention. Rasoul's eyes, so black with hatred in the daytime, now the only white specks in the present gloom, focused with intent on his own eyes. 

"Listen boy, you either make a decision now or we'll make it for you." His words went through the motions of a threat, but Aladdin could curiously hear another emotion there, a species of panic and desperation. In his mind, a gentle confusion - did Rasoul really want this, want him that badly? 

Someone called out from beyond Aladdin's field of sight, and he let his face go lax in Rasoul's strong grip as the man turned his attention away. Oblivion - all he wanted was oblivion, to forget horror and pain.

"Rasoul, it is almost dawn. The executioner, we must tell him something - "

"I know, I know," Rasoul snapped at his fellow guard, the panic now more evident in his voice, the fear of losing. He turned back to Aladdin, shaking him once more.

"Well, your answer street rat?"

Aladdin laughed a little, a small, hysterical exhalation.

"You can't be serious," he said, his voice sounding rough and cracked to his own ears, "I can't -"

Rasoul's face fell sharply, the brow and line of his mouth caving into a severe grimace that burned Aladdin with the force of its disapproval. 

"Fine," he barked, and began a series of quick, impatient actions that rattled Aladdin's bruised and broken body with their sudden forcefulness. His key was jammed into place at Aladdin's wrists, the boy's arms falling free and banging uselessly to the floor after being numb for so long. He cried out and tried to gather them to his chest, but they were grabbed, and he yelped as he was made to stand. His wrists were bound in front of him by coarse rope, and though he saw it coming and tried to scramble away, a bag was shoved over his head. His panicked yell was swallowed in the new, deeper darkness. 

As they marched him up and up endlessly into oblivion, no doubt ascending the stairs that led down into Agrabah's dungeons, Aladdin's mind spiraled to catch up.

One moment - paradise. In his hands and in his home, a beautiful, fiery girl who was actually kind to him, who actually seemed to understand him. The next moment, captured for the first time in his life, his heart's only flight in life ended as he flew into the bars of his cage. And then the pain, the pain he knew would come if he ever failed to keep himself out of the guard's hands. This, though terrible, was expected. 

What was not expected, however, what truly took reality around that terrifying turn into nightmare-territory, was the unabashed depravity he suffered at the hands of the guards, the source of the nausea in his stomach, the cracks at the corners of his lips, the sick, pink trail crawling down his thigh, and the shameful ache between his legs. He was beyond raped, he was broken. He was turned inside out, and felt as raw and dirty as a dead whore on the street. 

Dead.

Death.

He sucked in a great gasp of air, shuddering in the hands of the men who held him when he realized where they had emerged, recognizing like a distinctly-remembered night terror the high, cold and whipping winds, the bodily sense of height, putting it together to realize he now stood on the great guillotine-platform that shadowed his entire childhood on the streets as a criminal. 

Again came the wild, desperate thrashing to his body, and he had to be forcibly dragged forward, until his hood was ripped off the same time his head was shoved down beneath the blade against the wooden-block. 

His screams hurt his own ears, but he didn't stop, bucking up against the hands that held him down. Down below, the city sprawled out seemingly forever, but all he could see was the precious few inches of ground in front of him, praying to always have that sight, that teaspoon of life. 

He couldn't die - not, not for this, not for anything that he had done. 

He fought blindly, mindlessly, choking and hurling and scrabbling his bound feet in the dirt.He hurt himself in his useless, ferocious fight, burying splinters in the sensitive flesh of his neck, and cracking his jaw on the block's edge, but anything, even the flash of pain, was better than never feeling anything. 

He heard a rustle, a movement (the blade coming down?), and screamed louder than ever before his desire to live, his pleas for life, when he was jerked off the block and back into Rasoul's chest.

The burly guard clamped his hand over Aladdin's mouth, to muffle his hysterics, and the boy's tears splashed upon his hand. He would not be dissuaded, however, and shouted, shaking Aladdin in his hands, his head snapping back and forth like a drunk.

"Is that what you want? Is it?"

He jabbed a finger over at the guillotine, hungry in its worn wood and cold steel, and could feel, rather than hear, Aladdin's cried out negation.

"Then you agree then?"

Aladdin shook his head hard under Rasoul's oppressive hand.

Life, any life, even as Rasoul's personal possession, was an eternity-better than that freezing look into the gaping maw of death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rasoul took great pleasure in placing the collar around Aladdin' s neck, securing it around the tawny, convulsing throat.

It was made for him, specifically to the measurements of his neck. Aladdin still remembered the smell as it was burned to a seal, the proximity of the heat welting his skin. Too thick and strong to break with his hands, too tight on his neck to wedge a blade under - Aladdin would wear it, forever.

He found himself staring, when alone and sinking heavily, endlessly into despair, into Rasoul's dressing mirror. The collar was leather, black and thick, unadorned, a wide band across his neck.

Like a dog.

And he would scream as loud as he could behind his teeth, holding his neck, curled on the floor as his own rage threatened to swallow him whole in its powerful fury, knowing he had to keep it inside to save his worthless life.

The hardest thing, at first, was wrestling the disgust.

Of course he knew nothing about pleasing a man, but Rasoul didn't seem to particularly care, taking his new slave with all the hurried impatience of a man exalted in his own victory and pleasure. And of course, it burned like fire, cut like a blade, and flooded his body with pain. Halfway through, Aladdin lost his voice, and reached up, mindless in his search for an end to the torture, to dig and gauge at Rasoul's face. A cuff to the head sent him mercifully into blackness.

But then, Rasoul came to expect more than the vicious conquest. His years of pent up frustrations were spent that first night on Aladdin, staring down at the broken, bleeding body under him. Breathing hard, Rasoul looked and he noticed, his hand tilting up the unconscious face and noting the beauty of the thick dark lashes, the youthful, relaxed face. He wanted a sex slave now, not just a punching bag. 

That's when disgust reared its head as obstacle. Disgust at wrapping his mouth around another man's heavy-smelling girth, disgust at pumping a man he so hated to completion, disgust at placing kisses on a wide, gaped-tooth mouth bowed in a satisfied grin. 

And wrestling his fear was a problem as well, as he climbed up onto the bed, bowing his head and presenting his ass, but Rasoul turned the tables on him. With fingers soaked in oil, Rasoul shook his head and flipped Aladdin on his back and pushed up his legs, using his fingers to first circle, then breach, then stretch the boy's abused entrance. 

Aladdin had gasped then, face screwed up tight as he labored to keep his noises of confused pleasure inside, and Rasoul had laughed, a bawdy noise above him, and smacked Aladdin's thigh appreciatively. 

"There you go, boy, come on. Let me hear it." 

Aladdin, despite his senses of self preservation, went to mumble a defiant "fuck you", only to have a yawning moan cut it off, Rasoul using his thumb to rub at the underside of Aladdin's sac while his first two fingers rubbed and caressed his shuddering inner walls.

Rasoul didn't allow another feeble, yet noble attempt at defiance, sealing Aladdin's open mouth with his own, refusing to let him wiggle away from the unwanted intimacy of the gesture. Aladdin screwed his eyes shut, pressing himself backwards into the sheet. In the red-seared blackness under his eyelids, he could pretend that Rasoul was someone else, that Aladdin was someone else, that he was a body without name or gender. It was someone else feeling the overwhelming sensations swarming his groin like fire, it was someone else who whined when an impossibly-slick erection teased his coaxed-open entrance, and dove inside with a greedy plunge of the hips.

And he could pretend that it was someone else who howled and screamed and cried out Rasoul's name as he spurted hot onto his stomach.

Rasoul's dedication and lavish attention paid off and the pretending took a comfortable, permanent position in Aladdin's brain. He was no longer Aladdin, proud, wiry and wily boy of the streets who would sooner die than submit, he was just him. He was just a survivor. 

Rasoul extended Aladdin's duties to outside of the bedroom, and his visits to his bed became less frequent. Normalcy took a warped, perverted form, and Aladdin could almost smile again, bantering with the guards as he shined their swords and oiled their shields. He formed friendships with them out of necessity, needing something other than Rasoul's face in his new, limited world. For the guards, it was at first odd to see the streetrat there in their inner den, but a protective glower from Rasoul stayed their tongues, and Aladdin's infectious charm and wit brought them the rest of the way into friendliness. 

"These swords are suspiciously sharp for someone who supposedly uses them, Bahir." He would tease and the other men would guffaw in good humor as Bahir the guard reddened. He sat on the edge of their table, in the middle, finding even a small comfort in his life's storm. And Rasoul would silently appear in the doorway, leaning on the frame, not making his presence known as he observed. Through half lidded eyes he would watch Aladdin smile, the brightness there recalling the light of his earlier days, before his enslavement.

He was still charming, still effervescent, and Rasoul would feel desire roil inside of him. Years, years of chasing Aladdin, and now, he was his. 

Aladdin would look up when Rasoul would say his name, a clear, unquestionable call for his attention. He'd say, "Just a minute", or "Not now", and flippantly go back to what he was doing, his cleaning duties, his card game, whatever and Rasoul would cross the room in three strides, jerking Aladdin up by his collar. 

"Now, streetrat." He would rumble possessively, bringing the nubile body close to his own.

And the change would happen in Aladdin's eyes, taking less and less time with each occurrence. From the heroic youth of yesterday, to the slave of today, an invisible curtain would fall. A shudder would accompany the change, a weakening of his knees as he would follow Rasoul into his quarters.

Because that's what he was, a slave

************I adore this pairing so if you have a prompt or request please leave it in a review************************


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